Tempest at Dawn

by James D. Best

  “I understand the zeal, but land will not make backwoodsmen into gentlemen.”

  “Perhaps not in the first generation, but land can eventually make a gentleman,” Pinckney said. “A gentleman, however, cannot make land—unless he uses his family name to marry it.”

  Butler looked furious, and Sherman began to feel uncomfortable. Subject to Irish primogeniture laws, which mandated that his father’s estate must go to his older brother, Butler had sought his fortune in the British army and the colonies, where he had married the daughter of a rich plantation owner. Now he stood among the landed gentry of South Carolina, still wearing the epaulets of European nobility as if that were the true criterion for a gentleman.

  Butler looked ready to stand. “Sir, you tread perilously close to offense—offense that a gentleman would be obliged to answer with honor.”

  Pinckney laughed uproariously. “Mr. Butler, please, I meant no offense. I myself court a rich man’s daughter.”

  “If I may,” Sherman interjected. “Your ideas would be unfamiliar in New England. Must land hold such importance?”

  “Ships sink, factories burn,” Pinckney said. “Land’s permanent. Land conveys noble behavior to one’s progeny, while a shipowner’s descendents behave like seamen.”

  “You speak of the landed gentry with reverence,” Sherman said. “Yet you champion the backcountry.”

  Pinckney gave a sideways glance at Butler. “We both own land on the frontier.”

  “Your plantations far exceed your western holdings,” Sherman said.

  “In value, not acreage,” Butler said in an even tone that showed that he had shed his anger. “You can buy land in the frontier for pennies an acre. Surely you speculate yourself.”

  “Speculators buy or swindle land from other speculators, Indians, or others with dubious title. No one can unravel the conflicting claims.” Sherman arranged his spoon beside his empty bowl. “I don’t gamble.”

  “One day, some men will become incredibly wealthy,” Butler said.

  “The clever, the shrewd, and the corrupt,” Pinckney added derisively.

  Sherman suppressed his anger. “I’m more concerned with Connecticut’s small landholders. Sheriff’s auctions occur every week. Nearly a third of my state’s farmers may lose their land.”

  “The frontier has small farmers as well,” Pinckney sniffed, as if that settled the subject.

  Sherman could not read Pinckney. The man reveled in playing the ill-mannered cynic but sometimes appeared as aristocratic as Butler. Did he disguise an elitist nature with effrontery, or did he hide behind his rank to subvert his class? Sherman was thankful when the conversation drifted to Philadelphia’s notorious late-night amusements.

  Sherman finished another ale and decided to return to his room. In his youth he could have conversed the night away in noisy taverns, but now he had to husband his energy. He retrieved his cloak and stepped from the Indian Queen into a still night. When the door abruptly closed off the ribald din from the tavern, quiet encircled him. He lumbered slowly back to his boardinghouse.

  The rain had mercifully stopped, but the people of Philadelphia remained indoors. Water dripped everywhere, so he moved to the center of the cobbled street, keeping his eyes down to avoid stepping in splattered horse droppings. Sherman marveled at the oil street lamps that threw a warm glow over the wet surfaces. He had read that Philadelphia had imported these globes from London, but he had not appreciated their utility until tonight.

  Sherman took the long way back to Mrs. Marshall’s house. His friends didn’t understand his solitary walks, but he needed them to refresh his mood, test his convictions, forecast opponents’ moves, and devise tactics. The muggy air dampened his heavy wool clothing and made it difficult to breathe. He didn’t notice.

  There was no doubt in his mind that the government must be strengthened. The nation couldn’t defend itself nor manage its commerce. He believed that these problems could be rectified with a few simple changes to the Articles. Congress merely lacked the power to enforce its decisions. The states ignored national laws without penalty. He had proposed a set of amendments years ago, but the timing had not been right, the nation not ready. Sherman believed the timing of this convention matched the county’s mood, but the Virginians were too ambitious. This plot to gratuitously dispose of the Articles and demolish the country’s legitimate government must be stopped.

  But he had misgivings. War loomed. Britain and Spain prodded his country’s weaknesses. Barbary pirates preyed on American ships in the Mediterranean. Shays’s Rebellion in Massachusetts had scared everyone.

  Sherman felt heartsick as he watched the states rush toward internecine conflict and possible disintegration. The nation tottered on the brink of dissolution. A fresh approach appealed to many, but another false start might doom their republic. The brutal truth was that a government must govern—and this one did not.

  Sherman arrived at his boardinghouse, still puzzling the issues. His landlady, a small, sharp-witted woman, had converted her home to a boardinghouse after the death of her husband. Once a wealthy merchant’s home, the now threadbare house was large and comfortable. Startled by the cost of these modest quarters, Sherman had soon discovered that Philadelphia’s heady commerce, rather than his landlady’s avarice, had dictated the price.

  Entering the central hall, he tried to be quiet so as to not disturb the other guests.

  “I hope you had an enjoyable evening, Mr. Sherman.”

  He stopped at the parlor door. “Yes, Mrs. Marshall. Thank you.”

  She sat comfortably in the room’s best chair, knitting something Sherman couldn’t identify. “You gentlemen have some serious work ahead of you. How long before you start?”

  “A while yet. I think it’s safe for you to plan on our boarding with you for many weeks, perhaps the summer.”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate any notice you can give about when you might depart. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable.”

  “I’d appreciate an additional chair in my room.”

  “If I move the chair from the room reserved for Mr. Ellsworth, would that suffice?” Oliver Ellsworth was another Connecticut delegate, yet to arrive.

  “That should be fine.” Sherman took half a step into the room. “May I ask a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What do you hope will come from our convention?”

  “Why ask me?”

  “I don’t like to decide weighty issues without discussing them with an intelligent woman.”

  “Do you discuss political matters with your wife?”

  “She is my sole confidant.”

  “Then I suggest you write her a letter. I don’t involve myself in politics nor in religion. Today, my house is filled with Presbyterians, Cincinnati, and delegates. Tomorrow will bring others with different affairs.”

  “I understand.”

  “There’s a Pennsylvania Journal on the table. It contains an article on your conference. You may take it to your room to read, if you return it for other guests.”

  Walking to the table, Sherman said, “I’m curious about what people think, not newspapers.”

  “What common people think? We think about food and shelter. Simple things, things you probably don’t understand.”

  “I understand. I’m not rich. But surely you have other aspirations?”

  “When my husband died, his partner took the business. I didn’t even receive a share of the profit from the enterprises he’d already started. All I have is this house. I’m not complaining; I’m lucky compared to many widows.” Then with a taunting look, she added, “But if you wish to please me, move the capital from New York to Philadelphia.”

  “I want to please all my countrymen.”

  “I’m sure you gentlemen will figure it out. You don’t need the advice of a mere woman.”

  She punctuated this last with a return to her knitting that closed the conversation.
Sherman took the cue and made his way to his sparsely furnished quarters. As he ascended the stairs, the landing above suddenly went black. Purposely trudging with a heavier step, Sherman made a guttural noise.

  A voice floated from the dark. “Excuse me, sir, I thought everyone had retired. Just a moment.”

  Sherman heard the strike of a tinder pistol. A small light flitted like a firefly, and then a lamp grew a flame to light the landing. Sherman saw shadows dance across an indistinct ebony face as the man bent over to replace the glass chimney. Finished with his task, the man straightened. He seemed to unwind forever and finally stood a full head taller than Sherman’s six foot two.

  “I’m Howard. I help Mrs. Marshall with the house. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  “Not necessary,” Sherman said, extending his hand. “I’m Roger Sherman, a delegate to the convention.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Howard said, apparently surprised by the proffered hand. “May I light the candles in your room?”

  “Please. The room is still foreign to me.”

  Howard was tall and thin, like a slender reed reaching for the sun. Sherman waited in the hall until Howard lit a candle in his room. As a whiff of beeswax reached the doorway, the servant crossed the room and banished dark from another corner. Sherman marveled at how the tall black man moved with such physical assurance.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to make your stay more pleasant. I can bring tea to your room in the afternoons.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Is there anything else this evening?”

  “No, thank you, Howard. I’ll mention your courtesy to Mrs. Marshall.”

  “Quite unnecessary. Good night, sir.”

  Howard departed from the room with no more noise than a cat. Sherman, who had the grace of a pregnant sow, envied Howard’s comfort with his tall body. He already liked the man, which made him feel better about his accommodations. His conversation with Mrs. Marshall had disappointed him. He normally related well to people he encountered. Sherman hoped her cooking would make up for her sour temperament.

  His room possessed two luxuries he appreciated: a rope bed with a good feather mattress and a stuffed wing chair situated by a window, both well used but serviceable. The only other furnishings were a small writing shelf, a straight-backed chair, and a scuffed-up chest of drawers. Pegs on the wall sufficed to hang his few items of clothing, and when he looked under the bed, he found the requisite chamber pot.

  Sherman wasn’t impoverished, but he used care with his limited funds. Like many patriots, he had contributed his savings to the Revolutionary cause. He didn’t regret his lack of wealth because his wants were few. Honor loomed far larger in his estimation than personal extravagance. He had his religious faith, a large family, and the respect of his countrymen. For over forty years, he had held public office and, in that time, he had learned how to win his way among men with far more wealth and fame.

  He hung his cloak on a wall peg and turned the ladder-back chair sideways to the writing shelf so he could cross his long legs. After settling, he pulled the candle closer to cast more light on the newspaper. The editor was positive toward the convention and negative on the nation’s state of affairs. The conclusion read, “Upon the event of this great council depends everything that can be essential to the stability of the nation. The future depends on this momentous undertaking.” The editor shared his sense of import, but the article presented no unusual viewpoint, nor did it offer any solutions.

  He tossed the paper aside. Mrs. Marshall’s admonition to write his wife reminded him that his evening remained unfinished. He had married Rebecca three years after his first wife died. He had been forty, while she had just celebrated her twentieth birthday. Sherman couldn’t have asked for a better partner, either political or domestic. But Rebecca believed that he had sacrificed enough for his country and needed to stay close to home to rebuild an estate for his family. Although Sherman didn’t disagree, Connecticut needed him in Philadelphia, not New Haven. He just hoped this business would go quickly. He didn’t have many remaining years to provide for his family.

  He extracted writing materials and several sheets of paper from a worn valise. He sat quiet for many minutes. Eventually, he dipped his pen into the inkwell and struck the first words.

  Dearest Rebecca,

  I have arrived safe, but I do not feel safe. Desperate and able men have gathered for a tense contest that will determine our county’s future. There will be no rules, no precedents, no arbitrator. God grant me the wisdom do what is right…

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday, May 15, 1787

  Madison had felt annoyed ever since the two impolite officers had stumbled out of the Indian Queen. He mentally shook off his irritation, leaned forward, and said, “The Rules Committee must decide whether the proceedings are to be public or private.”

  “Private,” Robert Morris answered instantly.

  “I agree,” added Washington. “If we’re to have any chance of success, we must debate openly, without a gallery, and without the press exciting the people or the Congress.”

  “Shroud our proceedings in secrecy?” Gouverneur Morris said. “Are we sure it’s necessary?”

  “Public sentiment is against a strong national government,” Madison said. “The delegates need to hear the whole design and debate it without the interference of public passion.”

  “And our plan will threaten Congress,” Robert Morris sniffed.

  “Private then,” Gouverneur Morris conceded. “Our self-important Congress feels threatened enough. No need to add to their weighty burdens.”

  Madison expected that many would be stunned at the audacity of their plan. Persuading a majority to support their scheme would take time and seclusion from outside influence.

  “Then we’re all agreed?” Robert Morris asked.

  “Yes.” Washington looked at Madison. “Tell Mr. Wythe that the proceedings are to remain secret until we make our final report.”

  “Of course, sir, but I have a concern. Dr. Franklin always says, that three may keep a secret if two are dead.”

  “Good point, young man,” Gouverneur Morris said. “We must put the fear of God into the delegates.”

  Washington leaned conspiratorially close. “No, gentlemen, not the fear of God—fear of the Society of the Cincinnati.”

  “Our two visitors?”

  “They are but a reminder. As president of the society, I attended early meetings. When I saw the mood, I distanced myself, pleading other obligations. The danger is real, gentlemen. Many of their number believe a military coup d’état offers the only salvation.”

  “Surely cooler heads will prevail.”

  “Perhaps, but it would be a grievous error to count on it. Shays was one of their own. His rebellion might spark others, but I believe they’ll bide their time as long as I lead the convention.”

  “You believe that will hold them off?” Gouverneur Morris asked.

  Washington spoke in a low voice. “Yes, along with secrecy.” Washington met everyone’s eyes. “Gentlemen, if they know our path and disapprove, they’ll take action.”

  “This is indeed disquieting. How do we inform the other delegates without causing panic?” Gouverneur Morris said.

  “Individually,” Madison said. “Each delegate must believe that he is the sole recipient of this privileged and clandestine information. Each must swear to speak naught of it.”

  “But they will. It will be relayed in hushed tones in taverns and coffeehouses.”

  “That will further two aims: the election of the general as president and acceptance of secrecy,” Madison said.

  “Jemmy’s right,” Washington said. “We can hardly announce the threat in open assembly. Are we all agreed?”

  Everyone nodded their heads, but the table assumed a foreboding mood.

  “If I may, I have one more i
ssue.” Madison shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Are we sure we want Edmund Randolph to present the Virginia Plan?”

  Washington gave Madison a stern look. “Jemmy, we’ve covered this ground. Randolph has a rightful claim to present the plan. As the governor, he is the senior member of our delegation.”

  Madison found this statement disingenuous. Randolph held the office of governor, but everyone, from delegate to newspaper vendor, knew that Washington was the real power in the Virginia delegation. Madison held no illusion that Washington would present the plan—his poor delivery made him a reluctant speaker—but Madison had hoped to persuade the general to appoint someone stronger than the weak-willed Randolph to this weighty task.

  It wasn’t their first time discussing such matters. The seven members of the Virginia delegation had met privately each morning and then joined the Pennsylvanians at three in the afternoon for dinner. There was a difference, however, between building agreement between the two delegations and this confidential discussion with the leaders.

  Madison believed his mission both crucial and right. The United States experiment must not fail. He knew, was certain in his heart, that the fifteen resolves in the Virginia Plan encompassed the necessary characteristics for a republic to endure, defend itself, and protect the liberty of its citizens. This mighty objective stoked his ambition and excused his connivance.

  This lofty—no, noble—goal required ample cunning to bind the conflicting interests of the states. If Gen. Washington presided, and they carefully directed the committees, then nothing should take them by surprise. There would be setbacks—fierce resistance from some quarters—but momentum and common need would propel events along the desired course. He relaxed and sat back in his chair, confident that the convention could be controlled to his ends.

  Their business settled, the general and Robert Morris prepared to leave. The owner of the Indian Queen appeared instantly.

  Bowing respectfully, he asked, “Gentlemen, is there anything else you desire … another ale, tea and cakes, a plate of cheese? We have excellent cognacs.”